


cold toes on the cold floor

by Poe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (it's not mentioned in the fic but it's my fic and I say he is so), Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Betaed, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Hyperfixation, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Metaphors, Nonverbal Geralt, Not really described but I'd like you to picture Jaskier's magnificent bed hair, Sleepy Kisses, Sometimes literal monsters are easier to fight than the ones in your head, The Morning After The Night Before, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Understanding Jaskier | Dandelion, Unreliable Narrator, autistic author, nonbinary author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24769759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe
Summary: This had been a mistake. His Jaskier, warm where Geralt was cold, soft edges where Geralt had hardened, Jaskier who fucking smiled when Geralt looked at him and fell in love like it was something you could give away for free. Jaskier who found the plainest girl in the room and danced with her until dawn as though it was an honour, leaving her flushed and her enemies jealous. Jaskier who used touch to talk just as much as he used words –The warm body beside Geralt shifts and rolled over, and Geralt keeps his back turned, keeps looking over the side of the bed at the broken floorboard and the sharp nail sticking out of it, anything other than turning and finding –Jaskier.(or: after finally falling into bed together, Geralt wakes up and promptly freaks out. Thankfully his bard knows him.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 91
Kudos: 579
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	cold toes on the cold floor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ACometAppears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/gifts).



> Betaed by the magnificent, awe-inspiring jesuisgrace (AO3) and written in a mad dash after waking up with the first paragraph in my head at 5am one morning. Any mistakes still here are entirely my own!
> 
> Written for my very own Geralt, Jay. I am happy to follow you and be your bard.

This had been a mistake. His Jaskier, warm where Geralt was cold, soft edges where Geralt had hardened, Jaskier who fucking smiled when Geralt looked at him and fell in love like it was something you could give away for free. Jaskier who found the plainest girl in the room and danced with her until dawn as though it was an honour, leaving her flushed and her enemies jealous. Jaskier who used touch to talk just as much as he used words –

The warm body beside Geralt shifts and rolled over, and Geralt keeps his back turned, keeps looking over the side of the bed at the broken floorboard and the sharp nail sticking out of it, anything other than turning and finding –

“Mmph,” his bed partner mumbles, and Geralt can picture it, mussed brown hair and barely open eyes, mouth plush and full but not quite connected to brain, not yet, so its usual talents were muted, and so maybe it should be less enthralling, but instead Geralt wants more than anything to taste it like this, to sully it further, to see if it tastes the same as it did the night before, or whether the night had turned it as toxic as his own.

Geralt stares at the nail in the floor, sticking out, threatening hurt, mundane in the way it could cut and tear and lead to infection and amputation and the shuddering fever of death. Dust dances in the air above it, catching the rays of sunshine that fall across the room, across Geralt’s bare skin and across the bed, they’d slept late, later than they perhaps should have, and wasn’t that Geralt’s fault too? Would they have to pay extra, to exist for a little longer in this liminal space? How much does a memory go for, these days? Geralt would pay a thousand coins, in any currency you fancy, to keep last night – and isn’t that the most selfish thing in all the world?

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and – gods, a kiss against his shoulder blade, barely there against the scar that crosses it. He stares at the nail in the floor, thinks he should pull it up before he leaves, like a weed, lest somebody step on it and tear skin, bleeding red onto wood and staining it irrevocably. Blood stains like nothing else, and Geralt knows this, and he doesn’t want Jaskier to know this, even though he suspects he already does.

“Your brain is loud,” is spoken from between his shoulder blades, where there is a nose pressing in and soft kisses being pressed to the notches of his spine. His body shakes against it, and he wants to move, wants to – wants to do something, wants to pry up the nail and see if the entire floor comes falling down into the room below.

Destruction is easier than whatever this is.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and Geralt closes his eyes, muscles taut and battle ready. There aren’t words for this, he doesn’t have them, he isn’t blessed the way Jaskier is, or maybe they were beaten out of him like so much else. Maybe he had them as a child, speaking as children do, barely taking a breath before one thought ends and another begins. Like the way Jaskier’s tongue loosens when bribed with alcohol, every single thing he’s ever thought of saying running free and easy like it isn’t a hardship to do it, to make words, to converse, to make yourself understood in a world that doesn’t have time to understand.

For all Jaskier’s humanity, he is strong, a ridiculous mix of fragility and bravery, so short lived yet seemingly endless, and so strong willed that even a witcher might quake. And now is no different, because there is a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and it pulls him down and pulls his gaze away from the nail, and then it’s the ceiling, and then it’s the clear blue of Jaskier’s eyes, the most ridiculous blue, and Geralt isn’t sure whether even Jaskier knows how blue his eyes are,

He looks at Jaskier and every word he’s ever known fails him. Jaskier looks like Jaskier, in that Jaskier looks like nobody else in the world could ever look, and Jaskier looks at Geralt in a way nobody else in the world has ever looked at Geralt, like he may just actually see him. And Geralt wonders, _do I see you_? And he answers himself, _I think I do_.

It’s not enough though, and now there’s a crinkle between Jaskier’s brows that Geralt so desperately wants to smooth out, and he knows what the skin feels like there, has tasted it as Jaskier laughed beneath him, hours ago, a lifetime ago, who could say? Time has stopped, and in this moment, Jaskier looks – broken. Geralt has broken him. Like he knew he would. And Geralt doesn’t have the words he needs to unbreak. So he says nothing. Because this was a mistake, and it was always going to end in tears.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Jaskier says, and his voice is unfairly low, as though the night has taken it and roughened it, or maybe some part of Geralt transferred over, maybe some magic was exchanged between them and now Jaskier has some part of Geralt in him, and Geralt carries some part of Jaskier too. Is that why Geralt feels so goddamn vulnerable right now, so goddamn scared, how that fucking wrinkle between Jaskier’s brow makes him want to cry, to scream, to do anything to get it to stop, to reach out and touch and soothe and beg for forgiveness. If any of the gods could hear him, what would he say that he could not say to Jaskier? _Help me_ , he thinks. _Make this be a thing I am allowed to have. Don’t make him leave_.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Jaskier repeats, and traces a line down Geralt’s cheekbone, one calloused finger catching at the stubble there, before finding the dip of Geralt’s chin, and pulling away, and the loss of the touch of everything in those few seconds, and Geralt wants to keen at it, wants it back, wants Jaskier to touch him again, because last night he got to have everything, and to live a life without it now feels like some kind of eternal night, and monsters come out at night. Real, and imagined. “Stop it.” Jaskier says, and there’s bite to it, it’s a command, it’s _his_ Jaskier and he’s still here, not ruined by Geralt, perhaps, there is still time to keep him pure, free of this.

“Now, I know I might be being fanciful,” Jaskier is saying, tap tap tapping his fingers against Geralt’s ribs, one finger, two finger, three finger, over and over, a rhythm, a song, a prayer. “But perhaps, my dear witcher, you are sitting inside that head of yours and you are thinking – oh dear, what have we done? Surely we have ruined the most precious of friendships, by falling into bed after a frankly alarming amount of flirtation on one side, which apparently had gone completely unnoticed and don’t think that doesn’t sting a little, but we got there in the end so – but I can only imagine you are tying yourself up in knots, and not in a fun way, but in a very, very uniquely Geralt way, all grumbly and sad and self-flagellating. Oh, look at me, I’m Geralt, I’m not allowed to have nice things, and it is true – I am a nice thing, I can be _very_ nice, as you well know, and consider that a preview for things to come, a warm up, a dress rehearsal, even. I still have so much to learn and you, my dear, are to be my willing teacher. But look at that face. Look at it! I know you, darling one, and you’re scared. And it’d be an honour. The big bad witcher scared of no monster, but scared of one simple bard, well, one simply magnificent bard, but frankly, it doesn’t bring me the joy it should. Because I don’t want to see you scared. Geralt? Please don’t be scared of me right now.” And if Jaskier’s voice breaks a little over the last few words, it’s between them. Like so much, it’s between them. Another secret.

Are there words for this? Geralt knows there should be. The obvious ones – _I love you, don’t leave, stay_. The words lovers use. The ones that cast their own spells and forge new bonds. More words – _what if I break you, what if you are the one good thing and I can’t keep you safe, what if I lose you, what if one day you look at me and you see what everyone else sees, how do I bear that_?

Gold eyes meet blue and Geralt tries. He opens his mouth but the words are trapped, caged, and instead there’s nothing but air. So he reaches and finds those fingers beating their steady pulse against his ribs, and he covers them with his own, and squeezes gently, and if his fingers tremble as he does so, Jaskier doesn’t comment. Jaskier moves his hand underneath his and turns his palm upwards, lacing their fingers together, palm to palm, and they fit, they fit like they were moulded out of the same clay and fired together in the same kiln, and Geralt wants to close his eyes but he can’t look away from Jaskier, Jaskier who for once is silent, who is looking at him as though perhaps he can read minds, and maybe he can, and wouldn’t that be simpler?

“Is this a no-word day?” Jaskier asks, and gods, he gets it, he gets it all, and Geralt nods and Jaskier doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t yell or try to force the words out of him. Just squeezes his hand and presses a kiss to his shoulder, bathed in honeyed sunlight, hair haloed in gold.

“That’s okay, dear one,” Jaskier says, and moves their interlocked hands so that they rest on Geralt’s chest, against the slow beat of his heart. Thud, and nothing, and then thud again. On and on, and on and on. “Maybe I can talk, and you can start to untangle?”

Geralt nods again, wishing he could put into words how safe he feels with Jaskier’s hand in his, how it feels both like he is holding a baby bird he could crush at any moment, and at the same time the leash of the most vicious dog, straining and bloodthirsty and protection incarnate, soft only for him.

“I love you,” Jaskier says, as though that’s a normal thing to say, as though it’s not something with so much unbearable power, given and received. “I love you, and I know you know this. I’ve hardly been subtle. I love you when you’re rambling to Roach about monsters and I love you when you can’t make a sound. I loved you last night and I love you this morning. And I think, most likely, I will keep loving you forever. And,” Jaskier breaks off, and there’s a small smile now, because Geralt is staring at him like some ancient wonder of a forgotten world, and it must show in his face, without the need for words, that Geralt wants to echo back those three words, even if he can’t right now. “I love you now, even though you’re scared of that. I love you because you _are_ scared of that. Because, I think, we should be scared. It’s scary, isn’t it? To give someone so much of yourself. And I know, you think, oh, but that I love like it’s a wild thing, and I do. But you have found a way to tame that, and that terrifies me, Geralt, and so if you don’t think I’m scared too, just listen. Listen to the way my heart beats and understand that it’s okay to be afraid. But fear, we can’t let fear rule us, as you well know. And I may not be a monster, and perhaps that would be easier, yeah, I can see you smiling, that would be easier, right? But unfortunately, I am naught but a devilishly handsome man who took one look at you and fell, quite suddenly, head over heels, and never really picked himself back up all the way.”

Words – so many of them, like a river of pure spring water, washing over him but never allowing his head to dip beneath the surface, keeping him buoyant and breathing and oh so alive.

“There has never been a moment when you didn’t have me, dear heart. So don’t start thinking you can change that now. We may not be tied together by anything as complicated as fate, but surely, we are tied together in different ways, no less delicate and deadly. So allow yourself this, if you can, because I will keep waiting for you if not, an entire lifetime waiting for you to love me back, and I know that you do – I know, Geralt, you don’t have to pull that face, because I know, and it’s okay. Whatever they told you, whatever they made you believe, gods. The words I have for them, all of them, everyone who ever told you you couldn’t be loved and love in return. I see you, and you’re a good man, perhaps even a great one, and it is a privilege to know you, every single fucking day, I wake up, and I think to myself, I am alive and Geralt is here. And both of those things are gifts. And you know how I so like gifts. So don’t you dare try to take that from me out of some misplaced sense of nobility or guilt. I simply won’t allow it. You’re stuck with me.” Jaskier punctuates the last four words with a certain clarity, tapping with his spare hand on the bedframe, knock, knock, knock, knock, a knock for each word, a promise and a refusal. And Geralt sees it in Jaskier’s eyes, that fear of being left behind, echoing back that same fear Geralt has of leaving because he has to – and gods, Geralt needs words, needs to be able to tell him that it’s okay, but he can’t, and he growls in frustration and closes his eyes.

There are tiny butterfly soft kisses placed to each of his eyelids, then to his cheeks, and then to the little dip beneath his nose just above his mouth, then to one corner of his mouth, and then the other. A breath passes over his lips and he wants to chase it, and so he does, and Jaskier is there, warm and sure and he tastes different this morning, yes, staler and harsher, but he is still Jaskier, and where Geralt cannot talk he can do this, can move against him, the steady weight of him as Jaskier moves onto him, their hands still tangled together on one side, the other side Jaskier holding up his entire weight, as though he could possibly harm Geralt were he to collapse (they both know he cannot, they tested that last night, Jaskier sated and breathing hard, chest against chest and hearts beating like poetry against one another).

Jaskier pulls away, a little, and they share the same air, Geralt’s eyes open and fixed on the blue, like looking at a morning sky, except they go on far further than that, fathomless and endless, more like the deepest sea but still so goddamn blue. Jaskier is in those eyes, is in the hand that holds his, is in the heart that beats wild against his own. Jaskier is a body and Jaskier is a person and Jaskier loves him and fuck –

He loves Jaskier and he will always, he can’t see a way not to. And he wants Jaskier to know this, and he _will_ , he will tell him, when his tongue loosens again and his brain calms enough to form sentences again.

 _I’m scared_ , Jaskier’s eyes say, but not of him, but of what this means. In some ways so inevitable, but in others, so delicate, so barely there. _I’m scared too_ , Geralt’s eyes reply, because this changes – well, it should change everything, but does it, does it really?

They’ve belonged to each other for longer than they could ever acknowledge it. Even when they’ve been apart, there’s always been something forgotten of Jaskier’s in one of Roach’s saddlebags, and Jaskier has always insisted on thieving something of Geralt’s to keep safe and ensure the witcher finds him again.

Maybe everything they’ve done has led up to this moment. And maybe they’ve had to work hard to earn it too, because nothing comes simply in a world like this.

But maybe, for a moment, it can be simple, if Geralt just lets it. He grunts, and rolls Jaskier to the side for the moment, before leaning over the bed and grasping at the nail sticking out. He tugs, and it comes loose, and the world doesn’t fall down around them. It’s just a nail. It was never anything more than that. The inn they’re staying in stays standing, held together by more than that.

Jaskier takes it from him, and places it on the bedside, somehow aware of how perhaps, for now, it should be kept safe. Just in case.

And if Geralt lets Jaskier gather him to his chest, and rest his head against that too human heartbeat, keeping him just as safe, well, that’s okay too.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm getting the hang of their voices a little better now. I've read A Lot of Witcher fic in the past couple of weeks, and I've seen a lot of different characterisations and a lot of fun ideas and I love this fandom so much already. This is the longest published thing I've written so far for this fandom, but I have so many ideas!
> 
> You can find me at jbbarnes.tumblr.com where I'm always accepting prompts, or twitter.com/imwiththebard because I can never resist a pun.
> 
> Comments validate my fragile sense of self, and no comment is too short or too silly. Even a string of random emojis is welcome. 
> 
> I really hope you liked this, I based it on my own silly autistic brain, so my experiences may not be your experiences and that's okay! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] cold toes on the cold floor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27194239) by [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish)




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